The Happy Man
by Grim Spectre Of Death
Summary: Mycroft wants Lestrade to spy on his younger brother. Lestrade/Mycroft, slash. One-shot. Not a sequel to "A Broken Man"!


"Detective Inspector"

Lestrade growls quietly to himself, not bothering to lift his head from the papers stacked on his desk. He has an enormous urge to grab the intruder by the collar of his bloody shirt and kick him out of his office for disturbing him, when he had clearly said "I don't want to see a single person in my office, except myself, until I'm finished with the reports". It really couldn't be that hard to obey a simple order, could it?

He ignores the man standing in the doorway for a while, writing frantically every detail of the last case he can remember. He hears a quiet hum, but again chooses no to give notice to his guest. Damn reports! Why does he have to do them? He's a bloody Inspector now! Surely Donovan could take care of the paper work, while he dealt with Sherlock and his caprices...

"I hope I'm not distracting you, inspector."

Lestrade sighs and finally lifts his head. He's surprised to see a tall man dressed in an expensive suit, leaning casually on an umbrella. There is a small, cool smile gracing man's lips and grey, familiar looking eyes are staring straight into Lestrade's brown ones.

"It had been drawn to my consideration that Sherlock Holmes is helping the Scotland Yard with some of the more complex cases," says the intruder, and Lestrade shakes off the weird feeling of inferiority. He is in his own damn office, for God's sake! He refuses to be intimidated by this man, whoever he is.

"And you are?" he asks, suddenly curious.

"An interested party" the man answers immediately and gracefully sits down on a chair in front of Lestrade's desk. "Well?"

Detective Inspector slowly puts down a pen he is clenching in his hand and straightens his back. The stranger flinches slightly when his spine makes a loud popping noise.

"Sherlock Holmes is, indeed, helping us with some of the cases, if you must now, sir. However, I do not see how it is your business." He really doesn't care he sounds rude. He's damn tired and all he can think of at the moment is a hot cup of strong, black tea and warm bed. Preferably with someone in it...

"Ah, but it is my business, Detective Inspector Lestrade. You see, I worry about Sherlock. Constantly." Lestrade rises his eyebrows.

"You're his friend then." The man chuckles, the deep sound of his laughter sends an unpleasant shudder down inspector's spine.

"You know Sherlock, detective. How many friends do you imagine he has?" It is a rhetorical question and they sit in silence for a few minutes, eyeing each other - Lestrade with open curiosity, the man with polite patience.

"If you agree to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes, I would be more than happy to pay you a meaningful amount of money on a regular basis to ease your way."

Lestrade stares at him blankly for a long time, unable to respond. Anger wells up inside him, and he clenches his hands into fists and grinds his teeth.

"In exchange for what?" he snarls.

"Information. Nothing you'd feel uncomfortable with, inspector. Just tell me what he's up to."

Detective stands up abruptly and points at the door. How dare he? How DARE he? A bribe? In exchange for information about Sherlock? No fucking way. Maybe detective never particularly liked Holmes, but wasn't going to spy on the man, goddamn it!

"Get out" he say quietly, but firmly. His guest looks at him with the same damn expression of polite interest upon his face, saying nothing. Also, he doesn't move. At all.

"Get. Out."

"No, inspector. Sit down." To his own surprise, Lestrade obeys and sits heavily down on his chair, his eyes glued to the man sitting, completely relaxed, in front of him. "Now, if you could be so kind to listen before you make any further assumptions, I would be very much obliged."

Lestrade can only nod in agreement, speechless. The man's authority is breathtaking, and for a moment inspector is completely smitten. His guest is _powerful_ - he can finally see it in his face and expensive clothes, even in the way his hands hold an umbrella, which in someone else's grasp would look damn ridiculous.

"Thank you" comes a polite reply. "As I said, I am greatly concerned about Sherlock. You don't know him as well as I do, Detective Lestrade. In fact, you don't know him and his... eccentricities at all."

Lestrade rises his eyebrows at the man, clearly disagreeing with his words. Oh, he is aware of Sherlock's idiosyncrasy well enough to know that the man is completely bonkers.

The guest laughs quietly and nods understandingly.

"Ah, I see you do know some of my younger brother's... methods."

Inspector blinks dumbly.

"Br-brother? He's your _brother_" he mutters finally, still in shock. He never thought Sherlock had any family. In fact, he never even _considered _the very idea.

"Of course he's my brother" says the man, making it sound like the most obvious thing on the whole bloody world. He sticks out his hand, clearly waiting for Lestrade to return the gesture. When he's finally able to move again, he takes the man's hand in his carefully. It's big, bigger than Lestrade's, warm and very, very soft. "Mycroft Holmes."

"Hi" he answers and immediately feels incredibly stupid. _Hi, _indeed. Holmes smirks slightly.

"I needyou to inform me on Sherlock's doings regularly, Inspector Lestrade. You _must _agree."

The policeman frowns, confused.

"But why?"

Mycroft Holmes stands up from his seat. His back is straight, head held up high and he's looking down at Lestrade with unreadable expression in his grey eyes.

"It seems that my brother's recklessness causes a lot of trouble, for himself as well as for me."

"You worry about him. You really do worry about him." Lestrade says finally, surprised.

"Of course". Holmes turns around and, swinging his umbrella, heads toward the door." I would prefer if our conversation remained strictly between us. A very good day to you, Inspector Lestrade. We shall be in touch"

And he is gone.

* * *

The next time, Lestrade sees Mycroft Holmes at the crime scene. At first, when a black unmarked limousine appears, Inspector sends Donovan to shoo it away, thinking it's just another nosy civilian, who also happened to be extremely wealthy. But before Sally has a chance to step towards the car, the back door opens and a tall, familiar figure steps out of it gracefully. Holding an umbrella in his hand, Mycroft Holmes starts to walk slowly towards him and Lestrade cannot stop himself from admiring the aura of power and prestige surrounding the man.

Sherlock is no-where to be seen. Lestrade gestures Donovan to leave him and his unexpected guest alone and in few quick strides he's at the man's side.

"He's not here" he says lowly. Mr. Holmes gives him a look clearly saying "duh", though Lestrade feels that the man would rather die than allow such "word" to pass his mouth.

"I am well aware of that fact, inspector." answers Mycroft, swinging his umbrella. Detective rolls his eyes. A simple "duh" would have been so much easier to say...

"If I may inquire as to your investigation concerning my brother's actions..."

"I am not investigating anything, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade hisses through clenched teeth. Holmes merely looks at him with amusement.

"Oh, please, inspector. No need to be so... touchy about the whole situation. It is for the best, believe me."

Detective shrugs briefly, his eyes locked with Holmes' steel-like gaze. He notices a young, attractive woman standing a few meters behind Sherlock's brother, typing quickly on her Blackberry. Holmes catches him watching her and smiles slowly.

"Anthea," he says simply. " My assistant."

Lestrade nods slowly. He feels oddly shy in the man's presence, as if he was inferior in some way. Of course, he managed to deduce that older Holmes occupied an important position, but where - he does not know.

"He's helping us with the investigation. Murder. One of those bloody "locked-room mystery" types, dreadful business. I think he's got a hang of it already, seems to be in good spirits, full of energy..."

Mycroft watches him as he speaks, eagerly consuming all the information about his brother. It is a little unnerving, but not uncomfortable. The heavy weight of Holmes' gaze on inspector's lips, hand moving in slow, almost caressing movements along the handle of his umbrella, warm body standing close to Lestrade's - all that makes detective's thoughts hazy and he stops talking, suddenly unable to speak. He can only stare at the man, his mind completely empty.

"Thank you, inspector"

And with that, Mycroft Holmes turns around and walks towards his elegant car in the same slow, graceful pace in which he approached him.

"Until next time, detective" he says loudly, not turning to look at him. Lestrade nods dumbly, watching him walk away.

* * *

The next time, Mycroft calls him. Lestrade has no idea how on earth Holmes got his private phone number, and he really doesn't want to know. Really. He doesn't.

Lestrade is fidgeting at the vegetable stand in Tesco, wondering which lettuce he should get. Ice lettuce is slightly more expensive, but tastes a lot better than ordinary one, in his opinion anyway. His contemplation is interrupted by loud ringing coming from his pocket and he struggles for a second to get his phone out.

"Lestrade" he mutters absentmindedly, holding a lettuce in one hand and his mobile in the other.

"Ah, Inspector"

He freezes, recognizing the caller instantly. Mycroft's voice on the phone sounds more like a purr than anything else, and Lestrade swallows thickly, lettuces forgotten.

"Mr. Holmes"

"Do you have any further information for me, inspector?" There is impatience in Mycroft's voice, and detective wonders what exactly is he doing. Perhaps he has a meeting of national importance? Or is just about to start a war? Lestrade chuckles inwardly.

"Not really" he mutters, his eyes glued to the lettuce in his hand. The leaves are slightly brownish at the ends and he puts it down, then picks up another one.

" Pity," says Holmes, but Lestrade can hear a well-masked (but not well enough) relief in his voice.

"Um, I was wondering..." he blurts out "would you like to have dinner with me?"

There is a moment of stunned silence and neither of men have to courage to break it. Finally, Mycroft clears his throat, a bit awkwardly.

"Maybe some other time, inspector."

Lestrade smiles sadly.

"Yeah, I'd like that."

The only sound inspector can hear is a dull, beeping sound of an ended call and he sighs. He puts down the lettuce and, trying to ignore the feeling of utter disappointment, he decides to eat take away tonight.

* * *

Lestrade's apartment is small and cozy. He likes it that way. With his salary he could easily afford more comfortable and bigger lodgings, but this little flat near the city centre corrupted his heart at the very moment his foot stepped over the threshold. There is a small kitchen connected to the equally small living room. A comfortable, big couch and two armchairs are standing in front of the telly, a huge screen taking over almost half of the room. Walls, painted in warm brown colour, are lined up with bookshelves and DVD stands. A fireplace, situated on the right side of the telly, is big and old, with lovely woodwork carved along the edges.

The bedroom is slightly bigger. Lestrade's bed is huge and old-fashioned with wooden headboard and soft (but not too soft) mattress and black duvets, a strong contrast to beige walls. Lestrade's bedroom is also his study - there is a massive oak desk standing in the corner, covered with papers and files. Door on the left lead to the bathroom, comfortable and well-lit, with big bathtub and a pile of white, fluffy towels waiting to be used.

Lestrade is glad to be home at last, after a long day at Scotland Yard. The bags of groceries are digging painfully into his hands, as he struggles to find keys to his flat. A cold feeling settles in his mind, when he realizes his front door are open and slightly ajar. He can hear a muffled sound of his stereo playing inside. Frank Sinatra's voice coming from the living room does not soothe his nerves this time.

He leaves the bags at the door as quietly as he possibly can, and slowly makes his way inside, carefully avoiding all the places where he _knows_ the floor creaks. He looks around the corner and almost collapses with shock. Mycroft Holmes is sitting calmly on his couch, reading a book he left there last night. The stereo is playing softly in the background, quiet hum of Sinatra's voice causing Holmes' right foot to swing slightly from side to side. Inspector stands in the doorway dumbly, not understanding a warm feeling of contentment settling in his stomach. Mycroft looks like he always belonged to Lestrade's flat, like the soft couch was his natural location. For the first time, detective felt truly at home.

"Ah, inspector"

"I'm sorry you had to wait, Mr Holmes" Lestrade says sarcastically, looking down at the man sitting on the couch. Mycroft smiles a little, rising the corners of his mouth ever so slightly, and Lestrade forgets how to breathe. Almost.

Inspector shakes his head and goes to get he groceries he left on the corridor. Walking into the kitchen, he's surprised to see Mycroft sitting at the table in his snow white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie loose around his neck, jacket and vest fogoten. Lestrade stares at him for a moment, his eyes moving from grey eyes down to exposed pale skin of the man's neck and to sinewy forearms, covered in soft looking, short body hair. He looks... sexy. Yes, sexy is the very word to describe him, Lestrade decides, as he watches long fingers drumming a slow rhythm on the table.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" he asks, automatically (and quite absentmindedly) abandoning the formal way to address the man to more intimate first-name basis.

Mycroft rises one eyebrow.

"You invited me for dinner" he says calmly, smile still lurking around his lips and his eyes.

Lestrade stares.

"But that was a week ago!" he laughs finally, leaning on hip against the table, not realizing how intimate this position looked.

Mycroft chuckles quietly.

"And I said 'Maybe some other time'. I have time now"

Lestrade shakes his head, smiling. He's surprised to see a mischievous glint in Holmes' grey eyes and wonders if he's the only person who ever saw this brilliant man so relaxed and comfortable. His chest swells with pride and he turns around to hide a blush appearing on his cheeks.

"What would you like to eat, then?" he asks. "I can make pasta, pancakes, risotto, steak and veggie soup, but I have to say, I make the best pasta in London"

He knows he's babbling, but he can't help it. Mycroft does not move from his chair, grey eyes following Lestrade around as he hustles around the kitchen.

"Pasta it is then" he mutters finally. Lestrade shivers a little at the sound of his voice.

* * *

Lestrade decides his pasta is exceedingly good today.

They eat in comfortable silence, Frank Sinatra singing quietly in the living room, fire hissing and popping as wood burns in the fireplace.

Mycroft eats like a cat, careful not to get food anywhere but his mouth, movements slow and measured, as if he was eating with royalty. There is a glass of red wine at his elbow. Lestrade watches long fingers curling around it and lifting it to thin mouth, pressing against soft-looking bottom lip and Adam's apple moving as Mycroft swallows in short slow gulps. Sweet Jesus...

"My compliments to the chef" Holmes' says lowly and rises his glass, looking straight into his eyes. Lestrade blushes again, nodding in thanks and clears his throat awkwardly.

"Would you... would you like some brandy? Whiskey? More wine?"

Mycroft smiles that tiny smile of his, and warmth floods inspector's chest.

"Brandy, thank you."

They move to the living room, glasses of brandy in their hands.

Mycroft sits on the sofa, exactly at Lestrade favorite spot, looking relaxed and devilishly delicious. Inspector wonders whether he should turn on the telly, but decides against it, reluctant to destroy quiet, comfortable and almost romantic atmosphere. Mycroft's eyes wander along the bookshelves for a while, then stop at the sight of a colorful book titled "Gay Sex: 101 Lovemaking Positions" and Lestrade can _swear_ (on the Good Book _and_ in front of the jury if necessary) that his cheeks were slightly pink.

He chuckles quietly. The noise catches Holmes' attention and his eyes jump from the book to look at the inspector, his face a mask of indifference. But Lestrade sees the way Mycroft clenches his fists, his breathing quickens slightly, pupils large with arousal.

The detective is not sure who moved first. Or maybe they moved simultaneously, he doesn't really care. All he cares about right now is the touch of Mycroft's hot lips upon his own, long fingers making their way into his hair to bring him even closer and a warm body pressed to his. Without breaking the kiss, Mycroft straddles Lestrade's hips and rubs against him, purring contentedly like a cat. Their tongues and lips fight for dominance, both men in need of control. Finally, Lestrade moans deeply and lets Holmes' plunder his mouth thoughtfully, his tongue exploring every inch of inspector's mouth.

Detective's hands sneak under Mycroft's shirt to caress soft, pale skin of his lower back and Holmes' cries out loudly, eyes wide open and full of lust. They move together, rubbing against each other, breathing heavily and moaning like animals, the sounds of passion and lust filling the small living room.

Lestrade grabs Mycroft's buttocks to bring him even closer, moaning when a jolt of pleasure runs through his body as their hips press harder against each other. Finally, after what seems like hours, Holmes arches his back, throws his head back and cries out, his fingers digging painfully into Lestrade's shoulder. Inspector follows soon after him, silencing his own cries with Mycroft's mouth pressed to his own.

They sit in the same position for a while, Mycroft on Lestrade's lap, trying to slow down their racing hearts, inspector's face buried in other man's neck.

"I can't believe I let you ruin my Brioni trousers" says Holmes in a low, serious voice and Lestrade laughs loudly into his neck. He can feel Mycroft's lips stretching into a smile against his cheek and finally, for the first time in a long time, he feels truly happy.


End file.
